


If Nothing's Gained

by pressforward



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Leopika Week 2019, M/M, Mild Blood, Mixed Martial Arts, Underground Fight Ring AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressforward/pseuds/pressforward
Summary: Thursday night, 11:59pm, and Leorio’s facing down a little blonde vision in a seedy warehouse. Change the warehouse to a seedier bar, and maybe he’d be on his way to having a good time.Leorio signs up for an underground fight ring to make some fast cash, and gets a little more than he bargained for.Written forLeopika Week 2019!Day 2 - Tournament
Relationships: Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
Comments: 12
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW! That only took a little over a year (and some intense procrastinating on my HxH BB piece...) to finish. The entire piece is done and will be posted fairly quickly, since I'm only doing minor edits. There might be extremely slight changes from how the initial chapters were posted on Tumblr.
> 
> Title from ['No Plan'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXq_J29V5Io) by Hozier

Thursday night, 11:59pm, and Leorio’s facing down a little blonde vision in a seedy warehouse. Change the warehouse to a seedier bar, and maybe he’d be on his way to having a good time. 

The guy across from him barely comes up to his shoulder, small frame, dark eyes, bobbed hair. He’s way in the wrong weight class, and that either makes him stupid or dangerous. He’s got some weird foreign name, ‘Crurpikt’ or whatever, and he’s been making the rounds. It could be luck, could just be a result of the match-ups, could be something else at work, but he’s been knocking other fighters down, one by one.

Leorio gives him a once-over, then cracks his neck on both sides, pops his knuckles one by one. Blonde boy just rolls his shoulders up and back, then lets them drop, unimpressed. Good game face. Leorio can respect that.

The makeshift ref is poised just off-center in the makeshift ring; no mats, no legit ropes, just poles in buckets of concrete with spools and spools of the white nylon stuff from the hardware store strung between them. Damn, first round bracket digs are rough. If he wins this one, he moves up, one shot closer to the prize money.

Crupkik or whatever barely gives him a nod, doesn’t even bring his hands up, shoulders loose and fingers slightly curled. What a cocky dipshit. Leorio doesn’t _flex_ flex, but he might make sure to make his pecs and biceps pop a little more than necessary when his fists go up. The ref looks them both over, then drops his hand and gets out of the way.

The ref’s barely clear when the other guy moves. Fast, like a shark scenting blood in the water. Or a dog hearing a can opener. 

Pretty classic. Little guys like him, they tend to get in as quick as they can against bigger opponents. They get knocked around more, so the faster they get it over with, the better. And yeah, he’s quick. Hardly a breath and he’s already halfway into Leorio’s armspan, all laser-focused attention and stern flat mouth. Big yikes. He could be trouble. 

One more step, and Leorio trips him.

Or, well, it’s less a trip than a sidestep and a well-timed shove, but it makes him stumble, hit the floor rolling and bounce back up, eyes wide and offended now, upper lip starting to curl. So, big ego. Thinks he’s too good for a little rough-and-tumble, and takes himself too seriously, doesn’t know how to laugh shit off.

Leorio knows the type. He grins back, and cruller-boy’s eyes narrow, track him when he slides to the side.

The other guy rises slowly, dusting himself off with short deliberate motions, just out of reach. That’s a trap if Leorio’s ever seen one, and he feints forward, then immediately steps in when his opponent doesn’t immediately step back. He gets in one hit, square on the collarbone, more sensitive than people think. Sure, the other guy stumbles, but barely, and he recovers quick, backs off just enough to get a series of jabs in. Not serious, so Leorio only blocks a couple, then steps in with a roundhouse punch from the right.

Nothing doing--his opponent dodges, but the uppercut he follows with nearly lands. Leorio moves forward just in time, and the other guy’s cupped hand boxes him on the back of the head instead of right over his ear. He turns just enough that the elbow that was going for his throat gets his jaw instead. Not as hard as it could have been, honestly. Either the other guy’s just testing him out, or he really actually stumbled his way into the tournament. With the promise of that kind of money flying around, anything could happen, but Leorio figures better safe than sorry. Treat him like a threat regardless, and it’ll be fine.

The other guy tries to knee him, which is sneaky, but Leorio’s ready for it. Too close to dodge, so he deflects and takes it on the hip, which stings, but better than the alternative. He turns, takes a punch on his shoulder, another on his chest that doesn’t quite knock the wind out of him, but that’s fine. He knows what to do: Just take the hits, and push on through. It’s kind of his thing.

“Big guy like you, you’re going to get hit,” one coach told him. “Can’t avoid it, so you just have to work with it.”

No problem. He’s tough; he can take whatever this guy can dish out. Just get into his space, and everything’s fine.

The other guy comes in swinging hard and fast for his jaw, and that means he gets careless. Leorio steps into it, one hand against his opponent’s elbow so the fist goes wide, then blocks the next few hits to his ribs, abs tight. Second step, one foot behind his new friend’s heel, and he just shoulders the guy, hard, like a hockey check. Not enough to send him flying, but enough to make him stagger back. Leorio follows up, hits him once, twice, then brings a forearm down along the side of his neck, just heavy swing with a little shove.

His opponent’s stumbling back, but not fast enough. Getting his balance back is distracting him, so Leorio shoves him again, harder, then socks him in the face. 

There he goes.

Leorio follows him down to the ground and lays into him, enough to hurt, but not enough to break. No need for that; couple rounds of bleeding, most other fighters have been happy to back off. Just beat him down and wait him out. 

Smacking him around while he’s grounded is no fun, and not really impressive besides. Leorio hauls him up once or twice just to knock him back down again, the other guy snarling and fighting him every inch of the way. 

Couple of these, and the guy’s bloodied, more focused on blocking Leorio than getting up. Great.

One last hit, an easy swing, right to the face at a slight angle so he doesn’t smear the guy across the floor, but does clock him hard. The split second before he hits, the other guy’s eyes go wide, and he lunges up from the floor, grabbing at Leorio’s elbow and pulling. Leorio slaps him off by reflex, but it’s too late to pull the punch.

He doesn’t scream when his knuckles hit concrete. At least, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t, but when the burst of pain subsides, his mouth is hanging open and he’s breathing ragged and harsh, eyes wide and not watering, just stinging from sweat.

There’s just one heartbeat where his opponent is staring back at him, breathless and bloodied from nose to chin. Then he slams his head forward, cracking it against Leorio’s, hips twisting as he levers his legs out, shoving Leorio up and back. His hands come up too, and he surges off the floor, gunning for Leorio’s throat.

He gets a grip (bad) and squeezes (very bad), and somehow twists to shove Leorio sideways and down _(extremely bad)._ It’d end worse if he had gotten the angle right, but he fucks up, pushing Leorio away and not following fast enough. There’s an opening, one second where his grip is less secure, and Leorio brings both hands up between his opponent’s arms and swings them down hard and fast, breaks free, scrambles backwards and to his feet.

The other guy barely even hesitates, is already standing and coming after him, but Leorio has his guard back up. He had the advantage and lost it, but that’s fine. He’ll get it back. His opponent is laying it on him now, a flurry of short sharp jabs that mean business. It stings, but nothing he’s not used to, and way better than punching concrete. All Leorio has to do is wait him out.

One, two, three, then he jerks his elbow down to block a jab to his gut, then back up again to protect his face. Tricky bastard. When he tries to slide in, the other guy slides back, eels right out of a grab.

Hands up, Leorio tries a one-two, then hook, which the other guy dodges easily. But he doesn’t see the backhand coming, Leorio swinging wide and sloppy to land a really satisfying smack against his opponent’s face. He pays for it when the little guy grabs his wrist, wrenches his arm, but he lets go fast when Leorio takes the full step in towards him, sidles away. They both know if Leorio gets in range again, it’s trouble for the other guy.

This guy’s strong, but Leorio’s stronger. Leorio’s fast, but this guy’s faster. This should be interesting. They circle each other, panting.

Then the other guy lunges in again, hands up, goes one-two punch, then kicks one of Leorio’s feet out from under him. Dirty move!

“Hey asshole,” Leorio snarls at him, recovering his footing, but the cheater’s out of range now. Wasn’t enough to knock him off his game, but still!

“Kurapika.”

“Do I care?”

“My name,” his opponent says, low and fierce, “is Kurapika.”

“Great,” Leorio says. “That’s what I’ll call my mop.”

Kurapika gives him a flat look, clearly isn’t interested in the rest.

Leorio tells him anyway: _“Because I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”_

Kurapika punches him. Or tries to; the hit skims Leorio’s forearm, and they get real up close and personal. Leorio drops an elbow onto Kurapika’s shoulder, hears him gasp, then socks him one in the gut. There’s a sudden bright burst of pain along his ribs as Kurapika gets him back one-two-threefold, then headbutts him (again!) in the teeth. 

He reels back, and Kurapika follows, two more hits, then one hard stomp to his right foot. Leorio yells, two part outrage, one part pain, then elbows him hard again, to the side of the head this time. It’s a solid hit, but the guy tries to push forward through it anyway, and Leorio shoves him back, gets in two more hits to his back while avoiding the foot that tries to hook itself around his ankle.

Kurapika takes the stumble, back far enough that Leorio can’t reach. They split off from each other, catching their breath: Leorio wipes his mouth, watching him, and Kurapika straightens, shoulders rolling up and back before dropping, arms loose, hands closed into fists.

Leorio just has to outlast him.

He grins, brings his hands up and steps in, but Kurapika’s faster. One fist clips him on his chin just right, and he feels his head begin to turn as the world goes dark, then falls away. 

When he manages to open his eyes again, the first thing he sees is his opponent, one fist held up by the referee, haloed by the overhead lighting, face in shadow like an old church painting, blonde hair all gone to gold.

 _Asshole,_ Leorio thinks, as the dull ringing in his ears resolves into a jumbled roar.


	2. Chapter 2

He sticks around after they get him off the floor. His head hurts, but he’s pretty sure he’s not concussed, still doesn’t feel like going home anytime soon. Kurapika made it through to the next bracket, looks like he’ll be hanging around just for fun now, maybe getting back in the ring between the other tournament bouts.

Three fights later, Leorio hasn’t got the heart to watch anymore. So he crams his hands in his pockets and takes himself out to cruise the streets. There’s gotta be a bar nearby, something real divey to just sit and drink and talk with no other people for the rest of the night and maybe the early morning.

A few blocks down and a couple streets over has just the ticket. He doesn’t even look at the name, just shoulders through the door and settles in at the bar, asks for an ice water first, for his bruises, then whatever they have on tap.

Water glass is already dripping with its own condensation when it’s handed over, so he plasters on a cocktail napkin and presses it to his chin. That last hit was a surprise; it’s a tricky one, hard to get the angle just right. Head turns too fast and jostles something, oxygen flow to the brain gets interrupted, folks black out. He grimaces at a twinge in his neck. So that’s going to be fun to work out over the next few days.

He sighs, then puts the water glass down and takes a swig of his beer.

Some other late night vagrant settles at the bar, one stool down. “Gin and tonic, please. Heavy on the gin, extra lime.”

Something about that cadence is awfully familiar right now. Leorio frowns in the middle of his beer, chances a glance over and nearly chokes.

It’s Kurapika, that dipshit, his pretty face already starting to swell. Looks like one of the hits someone landed on him that night split his lip. Good.

The movement must catch Kurapika’s eye because he glances over, then freezes. Too obvious; he’s definitely recognized Leorio. Maybe if they just ignore each other and look away, it’ll be fine and they can drink in peace.

Then Kurapika heaves a sigh and nods to him, before pointedly turning away. Not exactly a sporting attitude. Not that Leorio was looking for one. Leorio glares at him, then says, “Come to gloat?”

Kurapika doesn’t even look back over, just takes a sip then rubs at the cut on his lip, scowling. “Do I have something to gloat about?”

“Prick,” Leorio says, scowling. He’s always had a problem with taking trash talk a little too seriously.

“Loser,” Kurapika replies evenly, then turns and lifts his drink in a toast. “To your cartoonishly oversized body. Odds on me were so bad that I made a _killing.”_

“I can make a killing right now,” Leorio grumbles to himself.

“You can try,” Kurapika says, then clinks his glass against Leorio’s. “Now drink.”

Well, he’s sure not _not_ going to drink. He takes a swig, sighs. The cheapest beer in the place is a perfectly respectable pale lager, little hoppier than he likes, but still fine. 

“Nice hit on the last one,” he says. “You’re good. Quick. Like a little rat.”

One corner of Kurapika’s mouth goes up, obnoxiously. “Thank you.”

Wow, cocky. Honestly, it could’ve just been luck. Leorio watches him a second, then tips a nod towards his empty glass. “Buy me a drink?”

One thing about Kurapika: he’s too wound up to be anything but a sore loser, but he’s a pretty gracious winner. Leorio’s not exactly hurting for cash (yet), but the drink and three rounds of shots Kurapika buys him are definitely a welcome relief for his wallet.

“Trying to get me drunk?” he says, slurring just a little more than he actually feels.

Kurapika just cuts him a glance, then slides his eyes forward again. “It’ll take more than that.”

Leorio frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have a reputation.”

“Do I?”

“Sturdy,” Kurapika says. “But stupid.”

“Well, everyone’s right about _you,”_ Leorio retorts, stung, pulls the last tequila shot towards himself.

“And what do they say about me?’

“Pretty. But an asshole.”

Kurapika grins at that, sharp and mean, but it sits wrong on him somehow, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good,” he says, and downs the rest of his drink, drops the glass back to the counter. 

Then he looks at Leorio and says, “Want to get out of here?”

Leorio glances back at him. Could be a bro thing, could be something else, but Kurapika’s face is still and unreadable.

Whatever.

“Yeah,” he says, then tosses down his last shot, nearly wheezes at the burn. Two tequila shots is fine, it seems, and three is where it starts crossing the line. Man, twenty-three and he’s already getting old.

He thumps his chest, wincing, then shoves back from the bar and stands. “Lead the way,” he says, and follows Kurapika into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads-up, I'm a US-based writer, and I am very aware that this specific dystopian hellscape has an extremely US flavor. They said 'Write what you know'*, and I wrote a failing healthcare system going hand-in-hand with despicable policies towards undocumented persons, and exorbitant, extortive gatekeeping in the academic system
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> *Do I like this for a variety of reasons? No. Did it make the joke funnier? Yes. Am I quietly and determinedly sitting on a 15 minute angry and occasionally contradictory denouncement of it, because while its use has been harmful, there are important nuances vis a vis writing for underrepresented communities and identities? Probably. Really, it's for the best.

The alternative to the bar is, apparently, a rundown little room, its iron support beams looking like they’re doing nothing to hold up the roof. No furniture, just thin mats, two punching bags, bad lighting. Leorio eyes it dubiously. Not usually how this scenario goes.

“You train here?”

“Sometimes,” Kurapika says, heading towards the back to flip on another light, then a fan hidden in a corner. 

Leorio sighs, gauges the risk, then flops against one of the support beams. “Depressing.”

“Economical.”

“I mean, I get it. Still depressing. Call it what it is.” His head and neck are aching, and he’s gonna feel those hits to the ribs in the morning. Technically, it’s probably already morning. He shuts his eyes. “Why are we here again?”

Silence. He frowns, listening, then rubs at one ear. Maybe his brain _is_ a little scrambled. He feels the back of his head gently again as he slowly opens his eyes, then flinches all the way back.

“What the hell!”

“There’s something not quite right about you,” Kurapika says, frowning up at him from practically zero inches away. “You’re clearly a capable fighter; that you made it in at all is significant. You should have done better.”

“Maybe I was just outmatched,” Leorio snaps at him, then knuckles at one of his eyes, yawning. Oof, bad move on so many counts, he is just sore all over. “Congrats, you won! Don’t be a dick about it.”

“No, I mean.” Kurapika pauses like he’s thinking about his next words, careful in a way that already seems uncharacteristic. “It just doesn't seem like you fight to win.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Leorio says, glowering back. “Of course I fight to win. Everyone does.”

“You’d be surprised,” Kurapika says, turning away.

“Oh yeah? What about you, what’re you so interested in, if it’s not winning.”

Kurapika circles back, grinning the same grin he had on in the bar, but it’s sharp and humorless all the way through now. “Revenge.”

“Come again?”

“There’s someone connected to a few fighters in the upper brackets, and I’d like to see him again,” Kurapika says slowly, still showing all his teeth. “Let’s just say it’s personal.”

“Yikes, okay,” Leorio says, eyeing him. “I mean. Good luck, I guess?”

“Thank you for the thought, but hopefully, I won’t need it,” Kurapika says, superior and frosty again. “I’d rather believe adequate preparation will have an edge over luck, every time.”

Leorio rolls his eyes. “Do you ever listen to yourself?” he says. “It’s all luck, don’t think so hard about it.”

“Really? Is that really what you do?”

“Yeah, obviously,” he says, folding his arms and shrugging. “I go in, I get cash. That’s it.”

Kurapika just considers him, being silent and awfully judgmental for a mouthy prick with more manners than common sense, but honestly not too much of either. Then he says, “You pull your punches,” like it’s supposed to mean something.

Leorio bristles. “Says who.”

“How is your hand?”

“My what?” he says, drawing back, but Kurapika’s faster, already has his wrist and is looking over his knuckles. Leorio prepares to wince. 

Kurapika traces his fingertips over the bandage, so light it’s hardly even there. Then he squeezes.

“Ow,” Leorio says, a beat too late, tries to jerk away, but Kurapika just presses harder, thumb digging in between his first two knuckles. _“Ow! What is your deal?”_

“So,” Kurapika says, ignoring him completely. “Not broken. Which isn’t exactly the usual outcome after punching a concrete floor.”

Leorio yanks his hand away. “I drank a lot of milk as a kid,” he says, rubbing it. “Osteoporosis is no joke.”

Kurapika just eyes him, then says, “I see,” in a way that obviously means ‘You’re lying.’ Then he shrugs and says, “You might have won,” smiling ruefully, tapping one of the bruises on his cheek. “You had me on the ground. I would have been unconscious, at least.”

“Or dead.”

“But I’m not.” It comes out slow, less a statement of fact and more like a condemnation. After a moment, he says, “You’re really not here for the same reasons, are you?”

Leorio straightens up to scowl down at him. “What _is_ it with you?”

“The problem isn’t with _me,”_ Kurapika says pointedly, and Leorio drops back against the support beam and laughs.

“Oh wow,” he says, when he can catch his breath again, doubled over and wiping tears from his eyes. “Wow. We barely know each other and I know _that’s_ a lie.”

Kurapika hasn’t moved, is just staring down at him, stiff and offended. Then he says, “You know what I’m after.”

“Same to you. Great. We get each other, isn’t that nice.”

“If that’s how it is,” Kurapika says, and steps back as his gaze slides to the floor, slow and almost… disappointed. Leorio eyes him, because there’s something else here he can’t pinpoint just yet. Then Kurapika’s mouth twitches, and he says carefully, “It’s only--”

“Med school,” Leorio says, but not because Kurapika’s played him. Kurapika looks up again right away. “I’m going to med school. Or I will, when I get application fees, then tuition, and rent, and textbooks. Definitely textbooks, I don’t want to have to fight every other dipshit at the library for the free copies.”

Silence. Kurapika stays where he is, staring up at him. Then he starts to frown.

“See!” Leorio exclaims, throwing up his hands and turning to leave. “Kidding! Never mind! What do you care--”

Kurapika catches his shoulder. 

“Ow!”

“Excuse me,” he says, then just takes Leorio’s elbow to turn him around.

After a moment, he says, “Leorio,” a little furrow between his eyebrows, mouth working like he’s perplexed. “There are scholarships.”

“They’re not enough,” Leorio says heavily. Before Kurapika can start with any well-intended but useless advice, he adds bitterly, “Besides, they don’t do shit unless you get in.”

The furrow between Kurapika’s eyebrows deepens, Kurapika’s gaze searching his face like he’s looking for something else to pry out of him. Then his forehead smoothes out. He shifts his weight back a little, but keeps his hand on Leorio’s elbow.

“Stay here for a moment,” he says finally, then disappears into a little back room.

Leorio watches him go, sagging further against the support beam. This is stupid. What is he doing here? He could be asleep or drinking more, or getting take-out from that place down his street that’s open until 4am. He leans his head against the pole, nearly dozes off.

There’s a slight scuff near him this time, just enough for him to open his eyes before Kurapika thrusts a handful of bills at him. “Here. It’s half the winnings.”

He jerks back, catches his shoulder on the pole, nearly falls over before he grabs onto it, spluttering. “What the hell! You’re out of your mind-- You’re joking!”

When Kurapika doesn’t laugh, Leorio eyes him suspiciously, then the bills. “Wait, let me guess. These are all the counterfeits and marked bills. Ha ha, very funny. I don’t want them.”

“Look them over if you want,” Kurapika says, still holding them out. “I’ll wait. I have a proposition for you.”

“How illegal is it?”

“Not at all.”

Leorio doesn’t buy _that_ for an instant. “What do you want?”

“A personal doctor.”

“Go to your PCP!” 

“Not an option,” Kurapika says, flat and final, and yeah, there’s a story there. 

Leorio decides not to risk it tonight, especially since there’s a bigger issue here. “So you’re going to blow your cash on ice packs and sutures--”

Kurapika flicks a glance at him, then rolls his eyes. “I’m not in it for the money,” he says, then closes Leorio’s hands around the cash. He lets one hand linger, like he’s afraid Leorio will drop the money, walk right out. “Besides, it’s not enough to afford a hospital visit if something really goes wrong. Think of it as… a partnership.”

“What do you mean, ‘not in it for the money’?” Leorio demands, looking up. Revenge is fine, but it doesn’t pay bills. "You can’t even go to the doctor, and you’re telling me you’re not even a little in it for the money? Like I’m supposed to believe that!”

“Believe what you want,” Kurapika says as he drops his hand, suddenly all business. “Just keep me standing, and I’ll split with you, fifty-fifty.”

“That’s absurd,” Leorio says. This entire thing is absurd. The bundle in his hand is a mish-mosh of ones, tens, twenties, plus a few neat bank stacks, but the higher someone gets in the rankings, the more the bets rise. This might already be enough for testing and a few applications. Maybe one book, if he plays his cards right.

And the payoff will only get better the higher Kurapika goes. His hand tightens around the cash.

“Are you in?”

“Are you kidding?” Leorio says, tucking the money into his jacket. “This is the best shot at anything I’ve had in years. Who’s this jerk you’re after, anyway?”

“Chrollo,” Kurapika says grimly, any good humor gone. “Chrollo Lucilfer.”

“Bullshit,” Leorio says, sharp and immediate. Fight community’s small, as far as these things go; some names you just know. This guy does what he wants, goes where he wants, shows up like a curse or a fairy godmother to dispense whatever kinds of favors he wants. No one fucks with Chrollo. One whisper in the right ears, and this is a death warrant. 

Kurapika eyes him, expression closed and unreadable. “Is that going to be a problem?”

And he’s not joking.

Still, Leorio doesn’t think too hard about it. “Nah,” he says, zips his jacket shut. Everyone’s got dreams. Besides, he needs something to do in-between studying. “Let’s start. C’mere and let me see your face.”


	4. Chapter 4

Two fights in, Kurapika’s mostly okay. Bruises, scrapes, no big deal. Someone gets him good in the second fight, and he comes out of it with a bust-up cheek, just a flesh wound. Leorio goes over him with rubbing alcohol and peroxide, tiger balm for his bruises, and checks him over for anything worse.

Third fight, it gets nasty; his opponent sees the opportunity and really goes for the face. The split from his second fight gets hammered, scab busting and wound gaping further open. He finishes the fight, but it’s bloody. After it’s over and Kurapika collects the winnings, Leorio collects him, then takes him home to sit him on the toilet in his dinky bathroom and patch him up.

“Look, you dumbass, you pulled it open again,” Leorio says, gloved up and settling next to him with some saline solution and one of those syringes people use on their noses. Saline’s homebrew, which is easy, just boiling some distilled water and adding table salt. Way harder is getting Kurapika to sit still.

He settles one hand alongside the split in Kurapika’s cheek, who immediately hisses and jerks away, covering his face. “Don’t do that!”

Leorio scowls back, exasperated. At least he didn’t knock anything away this time, but all in all, he’s getting a pretty good idea of another reason Kurapika might be avoiding doctors. “You big fucking baby, just sit still, will you?”

“When you stop _prying_ at me, perhaps I might!” Kurapika snaps at him, still hunched over towards the wall.

Leorio puts his hands down and glares back. “You’re literally giving me money to pry at you, jackass! Now stop moving, and this can be over soon.” 

Jaw clenched, Kurapika reluctantly sits back up and lets him flush out the split in his cheek. They got ice on it the first time around, but without enough time to finish healing, it’s not enough. Repeated trauma to swollen flesh, it gets to be too much and it just… does that, sometimes. 

Leorio depresses the plunger slow and steady, pauses halfway through to let the runoff dribble down and soak into the towel he’s holding beneath Kurapika’s chin. He squints dubiously at the split, then rinses it out again. No grit that he can see, and the salt should kill any gross shit in there. The butterfly bandages are balanced on the edge of the sink, and the sooner he can get them on, the better. 

He refolds the towel, and Kurapika sighs, shifting, actually glares when Leorio settles a hand on his shoulder. “Here, come on,” Leorio says, gently patting the towel against his skin. “Let’s get this dry. If it’s not dry, tape won’t stick.”

“Just stitch it!”

“No, you’re gonna pick at them, and if you get hit again, they’ll tear even worse,” Leorio says, frowning. He picks up the box of bandages and shakes them. “It’s these little guys until you’re done.”

“They itch,” Kurapika mutters.

“They work,” Leorio retorts, starting to fish a few out, glancing up when Kurapika lifts a hand to rub at his cheek. “Don’t touch your face.”

Apparently in a mood to see how far he can push it, Kurapika scratches along his jawline instead, then grumbles when Leorio takes his wrist and pushes it back down. Fine. He’ll do bossy, if Kurapika doesn’t like nice.

“Don’t scratch. Don’t even go near your face until I’m done, okay?”

Kurapika flicks him a glance, then settles back and goes still, apparently deciding to be obliging for once. Incredible. Hell must be freezing now.

On the plus side, it’s probably great for the environment. That, and he can focus on patching Kurapika up in peace. Face wounds are tricky, they’re so soft; the edges need to be lined up just right or they’ll pull and seam nasty. Stitches really would be better, if he weren’t going to fight again any time soon. 

Whatever. That’s just how it goes sometimes. Leorio frowns, focuses on keeping the edges of the gap in Kurapika’s cheek aligned, then bandaging it shut. It’s painstaking, fussy work, but he doesn’t mind.

“There we go,” he says, still slouched over to survey the results. He considers the bandages, a nice neat row, then nods. “That’ll do. Keep them dry as much as you can.”

Kurapika doesn’t immediately respond to that, still looking fixedly ahead. Then his gaze slides towards Leorio, considers him.

“Doctor,” he says, then reaches up and takes hold of Leorio’s jacket collar. When he's not brushed away, he says, “Kiss me.”

Weirdo. Leorio stays where he is, raises both eyebrows. “You asking or telling?”

Kurapika meets his gaze steadily. “Asking.”

Leorio snorts. “Lying,” he says, then leans forward and kisses him. For such a prickly bastard, he’s got a soft mouth.

Kurapika kisses like he hits: engages fast, takes his sweet time testing the waters, then escalates. No quarter given, no holds barred, etc. etc. He doesn’t let go of Leorio’s jacket.

Leorio keeps enough presence of mind to drop the nasty towel and syringe into the sink, but after that Kurapika has one hand on the back of his neck, other still wound into his jacket, and that’s it. That’s really all it takes.

He lets Kurapika pull him down, one forearm bracing on the wall as he slides his free hand over Kurapika’s shoulder. He settles it flat in the center of Kurapika’s back, and kisses him steady, not hard, despite Kurapika’s fist tightening in his jacket, trying to drag him in.

When he won’t go, Kurapika surges forward, would’ve knocked them both over if Leorio wasn’t ready for it, knees bent, one foot sliding back to take their weight. The drop to the floor is clumsy, but not a disaster, and Leorio takes his hand off the wall, puts it on Kurapika instead, who is busy trying to climb into his lap. Or, well, has already made it all the way into his lap and is trying to crawl down his throat too, tongue first. Geez, pushy. 

It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Leorio can be into that. He tilts his head up towards Kurapika, whose hands are on either side of his face, pulling him closer, mouth more insistent over his. Right now, it’s like Kurapika only has two speeds, too slow or too fast, and it’s okay until he tightens his grip on Leorio, one hand sliding around and clawing into the back of his neck. 

Leorio groans, and Kurapika digs in harder, pressing closer, tongue deep in his mouth. Leorio yields to it, he always does, he just likes to be touched, but this is too much too fast. When he gasps, Kurapika settles insistently into his lap like he belongs there, only draws back enough to nip at his lower lip.

Leorio puts one hand on his shoulder, fingers flat. He doesn’t push, that’d give the wrong impression, but he does take the chance to breathe. Even as they break apart, Kurapika clutches at him, hands fisted up in Leorio’s shirt. He doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t yank, just stays where he is, panting. He’s nearly nose-to-nose with Leorio, gaze cast down. 

Then he gasps, harsh and unsteady, shudders all over before pulling back. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t do anything else. He just stays where he is, face solemn and intent.

Some bandaids have pulled loose and he’s bleeding again, two small blots of red beading up along the cut. The one closest to the bottom swells, then spills, one slow line of impossibly stark red. Not good, but it suits him. His gaze is fixed on Leorio, bright and unsteady and burning, like a low-grade fever. Then, slowly, he reaches up to blot the droplet away with the back of one hand.

Leorio lifts one hand to stop him, because he needs to quit touching it, the wound’ll have to be cleaned again because he’s messed with it, but Kurapika takes his wrist and twists it back down, then leans forward to plant his mouth over Leorio’s again. He brings his weight forward too, hips settling heavy over Leorio’s, knees splayed wide to hold him there. 

He kisses slow this time, long and lingering, and he pulls back too soon. Doesn’t do anything else; just sits there watching, gaze dark, intent, and fixed on Leorio’s mouth. Leorio waits, then licks his lips to watch him track the motion. Kurapika sucks in a breath, doesn’t do or say anything else.

“What’s up,” Leorio says, voice hoarse. “You want something?”

Kurapika’s mouth goes tight, jaw working briefly, and he looks aside. Then he brushes his mouth against Leorio’s, hands tracing the line of one hip, answer and invitation all in one. 

“Where is your bed?” he says. He has one hand sliding up the front of Leorio’s shirt, like he’s ready to drag him there if he has to.

Leorio snorts. It’s a small apartment; guy saw the futon from the front door. “Help me up,” he says instead, hooking one finger into Kurapika’s waistband. No dragging necessary.

For someone who looks so small, Kurapika’s real strong, hauls him up easy, then tows him along. Helps that Leorio’s going with it, but still. It’s impressive in a whole lot of very interesting ways. Leorio tries to kiss him again, misses the first, second, third times, gets his cheek on the fourth, and by that time they’ve gotten to the futon.

Kurapika turns then, laces both hands behind Leorio’s neck and pulls him down again, body pushing up against his, needy and unmistakable. His eyes burn with intention, lips full and close and already slightly parted, but Leorio’s attention catches on where the little blotch of red on his cheek has already smeared. 

_Shit,_ he thinks distantly as Kurapika’s mouth settles over his again, hot and wet and demanding. He’s gonna have to re-do those bandages.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Guest appearances by Izunavi and Hisoka.

Kurapika’s phone chimes the afternoon of his fourth fight. He’s on Leorio’s futon, just hanging out, which is apparently something they do now, and Leorio cranes around from his spot on the floor, then picks up his phone as well. Since next fight’s tonight, it’s about time for word to go out for location… and match-ups.

“Who’s it?”

“Hisoka,” Kurapika says, tone flat, staring at his phone.

Leorio winces. “He’s kind of a freak.”

Sitting up, Kurapika shrugs, putting his phone away. “It wouldn’t surprise me. He runs in some of the same circles as Chrollo, though last I heard, they had a falling out.”

“Yeah? Maybe he can help you out--”

“No. He’s not the kind of person who works well with others.” 

Leorio turns to put one elbow on the futon, raises an eyebrow. “You speaking from experience, or…?”

“It’s common knowledge,” Kurapika says brusquely. 

“And that’s an evasion,” Leorio says, rolling his eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“As you like,” Kurapika says, stiff and snippy, and that’s all he says about that for the rest of the afternoon. Two hours later, he dips, still grouchy despite the honestly over-generous blowjob. Leorio grumbles to himself, watching him go. Honestly, he should know better by now. Still fuming, he settles in for a nap.

10:45pm rolls around, and he heads out the door, makeshift medkit in hand. He doesn’t like to go early anymore, and if he has no reason to, he won’t. He slides in a side door forty minutes later, sidles his way through the crowd to ringside. Looks like they’ve got two punctual fighters tonight.

Hisoka’s over on the far side with his obvious dye-job and carnival make-up. He cheats at cards, knows all the right people in all the wrong places, and hasn’t lost a fight yet. He’s been in a long time, too; only reason he’s down here with the scrubs is he keeps fucking off somewhere for months at a time, doesn’t care as much about the rankings as he does about the fight. 

Leorio trades nods with Izunavi, Kurapika’s corner guy, some scruffy dude in a ratty gi whose expression is permanently set to ‘disapproving.’ Then again, Leorio’s only seen him around Kurapika, so maybe that’s understandable.

Izunavi leans back to catch Kurapika’s eye and mutter something to him, which Kurapika just shrugs at. Izunavi looks sour, says one last thing before Kurapika full-on waves him off, centering and re-centering his weight. Dumb idiot. He’s going to get stuck in his own head.

Leorio strolls over, leans in until he’s probably juuust at the edge of Kurapika’s vision. It takes a few, but finally there’s a little shift in Kurapika’s posture, the slightest turn towards him.

Leorio slaps him on the shoulder. “Kick his ass.”

Kurapika just flicks him a glance, then heads to the center of the ring, rolling out his shoulders. Hisoka hardly gives him a glance, just stands there half-settled into a stance that would be sloppy if they all didn’t know better, already starting to smile.

This time, the ref stays all the way over by the ropes before signalling the fight.

Kurapika gets _flattened._ He puts up a good show at first, but the clown’s got years and reach on him, plus absolutely unreal speed. It’s just one, two, barely even two and a half jabs that don’t land before Hisoka flicks a hand against Kurapika’s half-extended elbow like he’s swatting a fly, then punches him hard in the sternum. Full wind-up from the waist, good form, and _fast._

Even from outside the ring, Leorio can hear the air get knocked right out of him, and then Kurapika hits the floor. His feet scrabble for purchase, can’t quite make it, then he rolls to his side, wheezing. He gets one hand settled on the floor, starts to rise. 

Hisoka lets him struggle halfway up, then knocks him down again. And again. And again, smirk growing each time until it’s a leer taking up half his face, eyes gleaming. Every time Kurapika tries to knock him back, Hisoka swats the hit aside. Every time he tries to roll away, Hisoka drags him back. 

Then one kick doesn’t connect, and Hisoka blocks another, and a fist connects solidly with his jaw. It’s like a joke really, with the rule of three: feint, feint, and then the punchline. It’s a good hit, forces in some breathing room, and Hisoka rolls across the floor. Kurapika’s back up, unsteady but his gaze burning. 

Hisoka’s up like a jack-in-the-box, a twist and one slick motion sending him to his feet, where he stands, not even brushing himself off, just easy and balanced like he planned it all along. He’s looking Kurapika over, and his face lights up. They eye each other for a second, then Hisoka moves in.

Kurapika’s right hand shoots out, fingers tight, thumb splayed. Leorio knows this one: tiger mouth to throat, then bring in to the left elbow. It hurts like fuck when he’s being nice about it; probably gets downright vicious when he’s fighting for real.

Doesn’t work on the clown, though. Hisoka just steps into it, bending Kurapika’s thumb back, and the elbow hits to the back of his neck instead. Reflexively, Kurapika grips instead, going for the chokehold, but Hisoka just grabs his elbow and wrenches until Kurapika gasps, teeth clenched, fingers loosening. 

The clown just laughs. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he says, silky-sweet, then punches him.

It’s a hard hit, even up so close, sends Kurapika reeling back, unable to keep his footing. He hits the ground hard, rolls to his front, coughing. Then, slowly, he braces himself and starts to get back up.

Hisoka kicks him. Once and hard, tip of his shoe driving up beneath Kurapika’s ribs. It knocks all the air out of him again, and he drops back to the floor. After a second, he wheezes, tries to drag in a breath. Then he curls inward for a moment, and one hand clenches, and he pushes himself back up.

Hisoka knocks him down again. And again. And again. It’s calculated, each hit landing just when Kurapika’s about to get up again, but never in the same spot. Just enough to hurt; not enough to put him out of the fight. 

And he doesn’t stop. Partly because he’s definitely the kind of guy to play around with his opponent, his reputation’s _awful,_ but the other part’s because Kurapika just keeps getting back up.

The bandages stop holding a good three minutes in. Blood is sheeting down his face again, staining his collar, and Hisoka pops him a good one, and he makes a sound, first one that hasn’t just been his breathing. Just one tiny little groan, and Leorio nearly gets both hands on the ropes before his shoulder screams and he freezes in place, one hand hauled all the way up behind his back, a grip on his wrist like a vise.

“You go in there, it voids the fight,” Izunavi says behind him. “You void the fight, he has to do it again or forfeit. He forfeits, he gets nothing.”

“Bull _shit_ he gets nothing, he gets to stay alive!” Leorio snarls back at him. 

“Stay out of it,” Izunavi warns, gives his wrist a quick jostle to make his point. 

“He’s getting _murdered_ out there!”

“It is what it is,” Izunavi says, jaw set. “This is his life. It’s how he wanted to live it.”

When Leorio tries to swivel around to glare, there’s just a little pressure to his elbow and his shoulder wrenches. Not the worst, but it’d get awful soon. He hisses, jaw clenching, then slumps his shoulders and waits. 

“You’re a real piece of work,” he says, disgusted. Izunavi doesn’t answer him.

Meanwhile Kurapika’s facedown on the ground, one hand planted flat as Hisoka circles him lazily. His shoulders bunch, and he starts levering himself back up.

Hisoka says, not loud but carrying, “Why don’t you just stay down?” He says it nicely, like a polite suggestion. ‘Leave your coat at the door.’ ‘Wipe your shoes before entering.’

Kurapika snarls something wordless, both hands clenched into fists as blood drips down his chin and onto the floor. Hisoka just tips his head at that, then flips Kurapika to his back, and leans in very slightly. Then he pauses, says something too quiet to hear. When Kurapika doesn’t respond, he smirks, then says, “This is going to hurt,” before winding all the way up. That hit’s not gonna be pulled at all. It could kill him.

Leorio sets his feet, running mental estimates of how bad a dislocation could be, how much it’d hurt, what treatments he couldn’t do, Kurapika’s chances at getting out of this, and why it matters-- Why _would_ it matter? He met the guy three weeks ago, it shouldn’t matter this much. But there’s already a bright twinge of promised pain all along one shoulder, and he’s pushing his weight forward as Hisoka starts his swing and—

Kurapika shudders all over, then carefully lifts one hand and taps the floor twice.

Somehow, Hisoka pulls the punch. His hand lands soft and flat on Kurapika’s chest instead, and pats gently before he leans down and says, “Good decision.”

Then he settles back on his heels, and Kurapika wheezes, hand coming up to clutch at his collar as he starts to roll to his side. After a moment, he starts struggling up, and Hisoka looks him over like a kid staring at a bug, then hits him one last time. It’s not a hard hit, just a jab, almost playful. But it knocks Kurapika flat, and if it weren’t for Izunavi hauling him back, Leorio would be over the ropes in half a second flat.

Meanwhile, Hisoka is standing, looking down at his handiwork, head slightly cocked. Then he sighs and flicks a glance at the ref, who is _all_ the way over on the other side of the ring, and smiles. The ref lifts a hand and calls it, and suddenly Leorio is released. Izunavi’s through the ropes before he even realizes, and Leorio brings his hands forward again, hissing at the strain, working out the ache in his shoulder. 

When he looks up again, Kurapika’s corner guy has managed to peel him off the floor, and Leorio’s over the ropes without even thinking.

“You okay? Kurapika, you good? You really shouldn’t move-- Careful! Be careful with him!” he snaps, would do it himself but Izanavi’s already pushing past him, stepping through the ropes that one of the ringside attendants are holding open. Leorio grabs his kit and follows after.

Izunavi’s saying something quietly, and Kurapika’s head tilts slightly towards the sound. Responsive, so at least there’s that. He’s moving sluggishly, eyes fluttering open and shut, open and shut, and breathing short and painful.

Leorio catches up as Izunavi shoves the door open with one foot, then rushes to hold it open for them. 

“Kurapika?” he says, following them in, and Kurapika immediately shuts his eyes and stills, doesn’t open them again. “Hey. Don’t be like that.”

There are a couple losers hanging out in what’s probably a walk-in for supplies at its day-job. They glance up, not impressed, and show no signs of moving. Izunavi shows no signs of putting Kurapika down, is probably doing his ‘I can outlast you’ hulking and silent routine. Leorio is abruptly over it, all of it, every single part, and shoves forward.

_“SCRAM!”_ he bellows, and the loiterers grudgingly straggle out, casting him, then Kurapika sidelong glances. Izunavi makes a face, one shoulder lifting like he wants to rub at his ears. Kurapika shifts and mutters, “So noisy,” then, “Put me down.”

They get him settled beneath a light, though he twitches and grumbles, then shuts his eyes tight. Concussed, almost definitely; be a miracle if he wasn’t, all those times he got bounced off the floor. 

Leorio shucks off his jacket to fold under Kurapika’s head, runs a quick visual check. Nothing really bad, and he lost, so he’s not getting back in the ring tonight unless someone _really_ gets their kicks from watching someone get ground into a pulp. With this crowd, though, it’s practically a given.

Leorio casts a suspicious glare over his shoulder, then gets up to shut the door. When he comes back, Kurapika is watching him blearily. 

“You look like shit,” Leorio says quietly, kneeling again as he rolls up his sleeves, and Kurapika just wheezes a laugh, then winces, arms folding across himself.

Past the door, a roar goes up from the crowd. Kurapika’s eyes track towards the noise, slow and unsteady.

“Don’t even think about it,” Leorio warns him.

Kurapika focuses on him, forehead creasing. “About?”

“About getting back in there. You’re out. You’re done.”

“Lost pretty bad,” Kurapika says. “Sorry about your tuition.”

Leorio scowls down at him, and one corner of Kurapika’s mouth twitches up in response. Smartass bastard. “Be quiet.” Something cold brushes against his ear, and he turns to get a faceful of water bottle, held by Izunavi. “Thanks.”

Not freezing, so he props it directly against Kurapika’s ribs, along the side where he knows a hit landed hard. Kurapika shifts, makes a small sound of protest. Leorio keeps a hand on the water bottle to steady it and glances up at Izunavi. “Any more of these?”

Izunavi glances at Kurapika first, which is obnoxious, but whatever signal passes between them, it’s gone too fast to see. “I’ll check,” Izunavi says, then heads towards the door. 

Leorio grumbles to himself, then settles on his knees to check over Kurapika. “I’m gonna touch you. Is that okay?”

Kurapika just inhales shallow, holds it, then nods very slightly. 

The abdomen, first quarter, then second, then three and four. Okay. Kurapika winces where he’s already starting to bruise, but nothing worse until his ribs, where he flinches before Leorio even gets a hand settled on him, then flinches again, gasping.

“Okay, okay,” Leorio says, trying to ease him back down. “It’s okay--”

Kurapika just wheezes, then grits his teeth, eyes tracking to the side to glower at him. “Broken, aren’t they?” 

“Maybe not, but something’s definitely up,” Leorio informs him. “Now lie your ass back down.”

“Some bedside manner,” Kurapika says as he shuts his eyes, tone sour, breathing shallow. At least he’s still lively, or at least capable of it. He makes less of a fuss when Leorio gets his vitals, though he does grumble under his breath about the stethoscope, and winces more than is reassuring for the deep breaths and coughing. But there’s no grinding, no bubbling, nothing outright horrible. Could be worse. Could be a lot worse.

Leorio sits back on his heels. The door clicks open and shut again, then Izunavi returns and sets four water bottles down in a row beside Leorio. Some other weird too-fast-to-see eye signal passes between him and Kurapika, and he withdraws, settles down against a wall and pulls out his phone.

Whatever, then. Leorio already has a pretty good idea of how to keep Kurapika together until he can get somewhere he can lie down for like the next three days. It’s not much, just two short strips of athletic tape for some extra support. Kurapika winces, but doesn’t complain. He’s getting more sluggish already, adrenaline kick probably fading fast. He needs to be somewhere he can rest, but they need to get there first. Leorio pulls out a scrap of cloth and wets it from one of the water bottles. Gently, he dabs it along some of the blood streaking Kuapika’s chin and cheek.

Kurapika groans, tries to turn away from him, but doesn’t manage much more than his face. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leorio says, lets the cloth settle to loosen up some of the already coagulating blood before trying to dab it away again. Kurapika grimaces, then just shuts his eyes. 

He stays like that while Leorio gets the worst of it off, then leaves the rest. The scrubbing’s just gonna hurt him more and Leorio already pretty much knows there’s nothing deathly serious under there. He can just wait to get more peroxide, and that’ll make it a little easier to clean Kurapika off.

This is no good. He gets up and heads over to Izunavi.

The corner-guy looks up from his phone, expression already saying he’s ready to be annoyed by whatever Leorio has to say. He was a fighter once, maybe still is; he’s cagey about what he used to do and what he does now, but if he got those muscles and that stance from anything else, then Leorio’s got three yachts and a membership at the country club.

“I’m taking him home,” Leorio says. “He needs to get out of here.”

Izunavi nods once. “Good move.” He doesn’t say anything else, and definitely isn’t volunteering to help, even when Leorio waits a few seconds to give him the chance.

When he turns back down to his phone, Leorio hisses, “Fine!” and wheels around, stalks back towards Kurapika.

Kurapika, who’s apparently deciding to put real work into winning Worst Patient of the Year, is already starting to sit up again, unsteady and wincing. Leorio runs the last few steps, gets one arm behind him before he can do any more damage. 

“The hell are you doing? Take it easy!”

Kurapika just looks at him flatly, like he’s asked a ridiculous question, which is somehow even more offensive when his focus is slightly off. “You’re better supplied at your home, correct?”

“Yeah, but--”

“Then let’s go,” Kurapika says, reaching up to slide one arm around his shoulders. It settles heavy, but Leorio’s no slouch; he’s carried way heavier.

He sighs, then resettles his hold on Kurapika, rolling aside water bottles and pulling down his shirt. “Okay, come on, can you stand up? Easy now, on three. One, two… three.”

Honestly, he didn’t really expect to get Kurapika up on the first try, but when he starts half-heartedly straightening up from his crouch, Kurapika heaves himself to his feet, arm dropping heavy across Leorio’s shoulders and nearly knocking him off balance. Then, of course, he winces and nearly folds up again. If Leorio were just a little slower, he’d be back on the floor.

“Seriously, chill!” Leorio snaps at him, supporting him at the waist and shoulder; his ribs are hurting bad enough. “What is with you?”

Kurapika ignores him. Instead, he says calmly, “Let’s go,” like he’s being the reasonable one. 

He only has the one arm around Leorio’s shoulders, other one crooked up so he can grip his shirt, hand fisted into the collar. Maybe it hurts or something. Leorio makes a mental note to check on that later. 

Storage closet has no outs, so instead he leads Kurapika back to the main room, and aims for one of the side doors, sticking to the walls. No one stops them. Honestly, no one really even notices them, which is a relief. Leorio still doesn’t relax until they make it out the door. 

“Cab’s this way,” Izunavi says, materializing from the gloom next to the door, and Leorio yelps, grip tightening on Kurapika. He loosens it after Kurapika starts pulling away from him, resettles his hold.

They trudge along after Izunavi, Kurapika unsteady with the streetlights darkening his bruises, turning them yellow and green and corpse-like. He leans heavy on Leorio, and behind some of his exhales, there’s a little half-formed groan. He needs a lie-down, icepacks, and some ibuprofen, and he needs them as fast as they can manage. 

Cab’s waiting for them three blocks over. The back door pops open, and Leorio carefully eases Kurapika in, then circles around to get in the opposite door.

Kurapika sighs once he’s in and both doors are shut, sagging back against the seat. Leorio leans over to fasten his seatbelt.

Meanwhile, Izunavi’s leaning down to speak to the driver through the window, is already passing over some bills before Leorio can even pull his wallet out. Leorio bristles, nearly pulls out his wallet anyway, nearly grabs Izunavi’s cash to throw it back in his stupid slouchy stubble-face.

There’s a light touch, Kurapika’s fingertips barely settling on the back of his hand. Leorio freezes, then looks over at him. 

Kurapika’s got his eyes shut, face creased and head lolled back against the seat. His cheek’s still bleeding, and his right hand’s still clenched at his collar like he’s trying to keep it clutched shut, or there’s a dagger stabbed through him that he can’t remove.

Leorio looks back at Izunavi and swallows everything else down. “Thanks,” he manages, then settles back against the seat. Kurapika’s hand slides away. 

“Patch him up,” is all Izunavi says before he steps back from the cab, lifts one hand in the laziest goodbye possible. Leorio ignores him, then gives the cab driver an address.

He has it drop them off the next street over. After being fished out of the cab, Kurapika opens his eyes and insists on walking, and Leorio manages not to pick a fight with him about it in the middle of the night on the sidewalk. Instead, he somehow convinces Kurapika to sling one arm around his shoulders again, and they carefully proceed one block over and up all five flights of stairs to Leorio’s apartment. 

Leorio gets him settled on the futon, folds a towel beneath his head, because first off, he’s still bleeding a little, and second, it’ll be a little better to support his head and neck. He flicks on a lamp, tilts it away from Kurapika, then goes to rummage in his freezer.

He comes back with damp hand towels and icepacks, says, “This’ll be cold.”

Kurapika grits his teeth, but still hisses a little when the icepacks settle against his ribs, makes a small protesting noise at the one against his face.

“And we’re just gonna leave them there for fifteen minutes for now,” Leorio says, setting a timer on his phone. He digs his stethoscope and cuff out from his bag again to get the second set of vitals. 

“Ten,” Kurapika says, mouth hardly moving, glaring up at Leorio.

“Let’s just compromise on twelve,” he says, doesn’t adjust the timer on his phone. “Now can you breathe in?”

Vitals okay for now. He’ll check again in another hour or so. Kurapika’s color is still good, for a wildly subjective definition of good, but maybe it’s just the bruising giving him color. Surrounding skin is mostly fine, though. Nothing complicated. Nothing they can’t handle. 

Leorio puts his equipment down, settles back to watch Kurapika. “You okay? I’ve never seen you tap out, _ever._ I mean, I’m glad you did, but-- You okay? What did he _do_ to you?”

In answer, Kurapika fishes one hand out from the blankets, slowly unfurls it to reveal a crumpled card. Ace of spades, with a phone number and ‘Call me~ ♣️’ written on it.

Faintly, he says, “I think we have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!
> 
> This is a heads-up that Leopikaweek for 2020 on Tumblr is kicking off on July 20. [Themes here!](https://leopikaweek.tumblr.com/post/619195509061697536/leopikaweek-2020-themes)
> 
> Also if you're into fairytale romps, I'm now shifting gears to focus my energy on finishing my [piece for the HxH Big Bang!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25008820/chapters/60557617) Stay healthy, stay safe, stay aware, and catch y'all on the flip side.


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